


with every breath i try not to take

by memitims



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2014-08-27
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:58:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/memitims/pseuds/memitims
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>mickey's not a coward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	with every breath i try not to take

**Author's Note:**

> requested by **[shmickeyshmilkovich](http://shmickeyshmilkovich.tumblr.com/)** as part of the [angst prompt meme](http://distractedpainter.tumblr.com/post/82169288531/another-angsty-starters-meme) on tumblr ("Please, come get me.")

Mickey isn’t scared of much. He’s not a goddamn coward. He knows how to shoot a gun and use his fists and show the neighborhood who’s boss.

He is, however, scared of his father.

Mickey’s also scared of the way Ian makes him feel, the way he filled out nicely while Mickey was in juvie, the way he’s ambitious and headstrong and endearing, the way he can read Mickey like an open book, the way he sometimes holds Mickey’s hands when they fuck, the way his smile looks in the darkness.

Ian has fire inside him, he looks at Mickey and Mickey feels like he’s burning up in flames, he had the choice to stay in or jump out, but Mickey went in headfirst and lit the fucking match.

At least his fear of Ian is tinged with hope, with light, with the distant possibility that they can grow and work things out and escape and that eventually Ian will make Mickey forget to be afraid.

His fear of his father is a giant, inescapable, black hole. Which is why, given the chance, he will always take dealing with the fluttering feeling Ian causes within his chest over the bitter taste his father leaves in his mouth whenever he’s around.

\---

Mickey can hear Terry outside his bedroom door, drunk and complaining about the weather or something, yelling about how fucking hot it is and the bugs and other shit that Mickey really doesn’t care about.

Mickey really wants to be asleep, because he had a long day and it’s late.

He hears him yell something at Mandy, hears her scuttle into her bedroom and slam the door. As much as Mickey’s afraid of his father finding out about him and the fact that he wants to kiss Ian more than anything, he’s also afraid for his sister. Mandy’s tough and fearless, he knows that, but Mickey’s also seen his little sister cry into her pillow more than enough times to last a lifetime.

Mandy holds him up, she’s one of the only good fucking things in his life, and he hates not being able to talk to her about Ian.

 _I’m so fucking screwed_ , he wants to tell her.  _I’m head over heels for your best friend and I wish I knew what to do about it_ , and she would give him advice, no question, like she always does. Mandy would listen to his problems and help him figure them out and probably tell him to stop being such a fuckin’ wimp about Ian, and maybe Mickey would. Except, he can’t tell her, he can’t get those words past the iron-trap in his throat, can’t admit that he thinks about Ian every fucking minute of the goddamn day.

His father yells again, and Mickey can’t talk to Mandy, but he can talk to Ian. He creeps out into the living room, avoiding Terry in the kitchen, and he grabs the receiver of their shitty home phone.

He knows Ian’s phone number by heart.

It rings and rings, Ian’s cell phone, the shitty one that Lip got for him because the guy runs a fucking fight club or something, and it rings again, and then Ian picks up.

“Mandy?” he asks, and Mickey can hear the fucking smile in his voice.

“No, dumbass,” Mickey says, gruffly. “It’s Mickey.”

“Oh,” he says, and the smile through the phone doesn’t disappear. “What’s up? You know it’s like 11, right?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Mickey takes a breath. “My dad,” he says, as way of explanation. “It’s been. It’s been a bad night. Will you - will you please come get me?”

He sounds so fucking stupid, so pathetic and pitiful, but he knows that Ian won’t care. Hell, he practically asks Mickey to lay his heart out on the line. Mickey doesn’t know what kind of fucking voodoo magic Ian has, but sometimes Mickey lets himself be vulnerable in ways he didn’t know were possible, in ways he’s never shown anyone but Ian.

Ian makes a noise over the phone, and it’s not pity, because he knows better than to pity Mickey, but instead it’s something that makes warmth spread up through Mickey’s body, starting from his toes.

“‘Course,” Ian says. “I’ll be there in five,” like he has nothing better to do at 11 o’clock on a Thursday night.

Mickey thinks about it for a second. He thinks about Ian coming to his house, he thinks about his father, and he thinks about Mandy in her room.

(He thinks about Ian running up to his doorstep, before all the shit went down with Kash and the gun and juvie, wide-eyed and frantic, babbling something about his mother and needing to see Mickey, and Mickey remembers that Ian looked at him like he was something special, like he had the capacity to heal the bruises criss-crossed atop Ian’s heart, like he was a lifeboat and Ian was sinking into icy-cold water.

He thinks that Ian might be his lifeboat right now.)

Mickey doesn’t respond for a few moments, and he can feel Ian getting impatient on the other end, because Ian is so fucking eager to help him and he doesn’t know how he possibly deserves this, Ian Gallagher wanting to save him from the cruel wrath of his father.

“Wait, actually,” he says, “Meet me under the L tracks in five.”

“You sure?” Ian asks.

“Yes,” Mickey says. “See you soon.”

He hangs up.

\---

Mickey spots Ian immediately, up under the tracks, and his hair is bright, even in the darkness.

“Gallagher,” Mickey calls, but his voice contains none of his usual bluster. It’s late, and he’s tired, and he just wants to sit down and breathe in the smell of Ian’s fucking shampoo, and it’s always something different - strawberry or flowers or fucking mango.

Ian waves, and he pats the concrete next to him. Mickey lowers himself to the ground and folds his knees against his chest, because he doesn’t need to be big and loud and intimidating around Ian. He can be small and Ian will still make him feel like he’s strong, like he can do anything.

“You okay?” Ian asks, his eyes trailing over Mickey.

Mickey turns away, because he hates that Ian can read everything that flits over his face. “Don’t ask stupid fucking questions.”

Ian looks like he wants to fight back, probably say something dumb about how the way Mickey feels is always important, just another stupid thing Ian does that makes Mickey fall in love with him even more.

He knocks his shoulder gently against Ian’s. “Let me take a fuckin’ nap, okay? Too noisy at my house.”

Mickey doesn’t mention that it’s not the noise that bothers him, they’re under the fucking train tracks, which is loud as hell, but it’s his father that makes him uneasy, that makes him afraid to close his eyes and sleep.

Ian nods, and he presses closer to Mickey. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking, doesn’t know why his brain thought it would be a good idea to call Ian and then just fall asleep on him, why he couldn’t just escape his house and come sleep under the L alone, but something about Ian makes him relax, makes him feel safe, he can’t fucking explain it and he’d never tell Ian that, but it’s true.

Mickey lays his head on Ian’s shoulder, and he starts to fall asleep, and the train rattles above them, and Ian’s hair smells like lavender tonight, and Mickey forgets for a quick moment - before he slides off into his dreams - that he was ever afraid of anything.


End file.
